Their lives passed as in a morning dream, or a wondrous fairy-tale,
where two lovers wander in a sunny garden among great flowers and
singing birds, or rest, surrounded by attendant sprites, who fulfill
each wish before it is uttered.
They were disagreeably brought back to the realities of life when
one day Anne asked, with her most impassive air, when Madame la
Comtesse thought of leaving, for if she were going to stay any
longer, they must provide themselves with winter clothing. They had
reached the end of September; it rained nearly every day, the
streets of the village were impassable, sitting on the shore out of
the question, the equinoctial gales howled across the country from
the tempestuous sea; all the world had gone home, and Wilhelm and
Pilar were the last guests in the desolate hotel, spending most of
the day in their room, where an inadequate fire spluttered on the
hearth. For a fortnight past Anne had boiled with silent rage, which
she sometimes let out on poor, snorting, asthmatic Fido. She had
been absent from Paris since the middle of July, and had counted on
being back by the beginning of September at the latest, and here was
October coming upon them in this God-forsaken little hole, and her
mistress showed no signs of returning home.
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